


(a friendship) as natural as breathing

by whiplash



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asthma, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 03:34:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1413526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiplash/pseuds/whiplash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which d'Artagnan might not have his inhaler, but he sure has his friends. (Modern AU.)</p><p>Kink meme fill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(a friendship) as natural as breathing

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [(a friendship) as natural as breathing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5769280) by [aqwt101](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aqwt101/pseuds/aqwt101)



He can't find it.  
  
He digs through his pockets, but finds little but lint and old receipts. He checks once more, then yet again because it's impossible. The inhaler's not something he forgets, not ever . He'd promised Captain Treville -- hell, he'd promised his _mother_ \-- that his asthma wouldn't be a problem, that it wouldn't interfere with his work on the team.  
  
D'Artagnan checks again, hands shaking as he pulls everything out of his pockets and drops it onto the snowy ground. No matter how hard he wills it to appear, it's just gone. Searching his mind for an answer -- _had he left it at his desk, had he dropped it in the car, had it fallen out of his pocket when walking through the forest..._ \-- he comes up with nothing.  
  
Gripping his phone, useless up here where there's no signal, he tries to come up with a plan only to get stuck because there has never been a back-up plan for his asthma. The inhaler has always been there, has nearly always done the trick and the handful of times it hasn't someone has always been there to call emergency services. Though the last time for that had been ages ago; he'd been in his early teens and his dad had still been alive.  
  
Each wheezing breath leaves a cloud of white mist hanging in the air in front of him. A cough tickles his throat, but he knows if he starts he won't be able to stop. He tries to figure out how long it would take to drive to the nearest hospital. He plays, for a few reckless seconds, with the idea of just bearing it out. To just somehow... soldier through it while hoping for the best. Maybe it won't be too serious, maybe it will go away by itself.  
  
Ice cracks and breaks as someone approaches. D'Artagnan stiffens, air escaping his lungs in a panicked whine.  
  
"You okay?"  
  
He turns his head to find Porthos frowning down at him, the wide shoulders of his blue POLICE jacket dotted with snowflakes. He has pulled his cap down over his ears and his scarf -- a ridiculous thing that Aramis had knitted while dating that new age granola lady -- has been wrapped three times around his neck with the ends trailing down his chest.  
  
D'Artagnan opens his mouth only to close it again, unsure of what to say. Embarrassed, though he wouldn't be able to explain why if asked. He sucks in another lungful of air, meaning to try again when Aramis comes crashing out of the bushes, followed by Athos. The words die on d'Artagnan's tongue at the sight of his three team members, all senior officers with intimidating reputations and years of service behind them.  
  
Admitting to being ill -- being weak, being a liability -- when he's already the youngest and least experienced police officer ever given the honour of serving  in the special task force seems nearly impossible. The only thing worse than the worry that they might ask Treville to take him off the team, is the fear that they might be right to do so.  
  
"What's up?" Athos frowns at them, snow in his hair and the ever present cigarette in his hand. "Why did you stop? It's another ten minutes of hiking until we get to the crime scene."  
  
One high-pitched inhale and d'Artagnan feels himself wilting under the focus of three pairs of shrewd eyes. He steals a look at Aramis, figuring him as the one most likely to realize what's happening. The man had been a student of medicine, as well as theology and romantic literature, before he became an officer of the law. Somehow this seemed to have qualified him to be the one who patched up any small scratches or, when a band-aid wouldn't do the trick, kept them alive until the ambulance arrived.  
  
"Asthma?"  
  
To his surprise, it's Athos asking the question.  At d'Artagnan's hesitant nod, he throws the cigarette on the ground and grinds it out in the snow. As far as d'Artagnan is concerned, the event is nearly unprecedented as smoking is the addiction that Athos has allowed himself to keep after giving up the bottle.  
  
"Do you have an inhaler?" comes the next question, Athos crossing the distance between them and patting d'Artagnan down without waiting for an answer. When d'Artagnan shakes his head, a muscle in Athos' jaw twitches before he turns around, stomps back to Aramis and jerks the insulated coffee cup out of his gloved hand.  
  
"Not sure this is the best time for a coffee break, boss," the latter quips, voice mild but his eyes serious as he follows Athos' every movement. Ignoring him Athos pulls off the lid, steam rising into the cold winter air, before holding out the cup towards d'Artagnan.  
  
"Drink," he orders. Liquid sloshes over the edge as d'Artagnan takes the cup with shaky hands. The coffee is hot and bitter on his tongue, and he begins sweating from the effort of dividing his energy between drinking and breathing. Athos' hand, cold but strong, on the back of his neck helps him to focus though and soon he's downed half the contents of the cup.  
  
"Coffee's better than nothing," Athos explains. "In an emergency, at least."  
  
"How bad is it?" Aramis then asks, nothing in his voice or face giving away any hint of concern. D'Artagnan has seen him acting the exact same way with Porthos bleeding out in an alleyway though, so he doesn't find it particularly calming. "Are we talking _helicopter-ride-out-of-here_ bad or just _Porthos-breaking-all-speed-limits_ bad?"  
  
"Porthos," d'Artagnan huffs, his voice coming out thin and raspy.  
  
"Can you walk to the car?"  
  
The answer's no, and something in his face must give that away along with his embarrassment because they don't make him admit it out loud. The three of them look at each other and that's all it takes; there's a plan. It's incredible, it's impossible, it's something which even now fills d'Artagnan with amazement and longing for the day when he'll truly and fully be part of that magic. That is, of course, if he doesn't get kicked out of the team before that happens.  
  
Athos' jerks his chin, a gesture which means ' _make it happen_ ', and Aramis and Porthos kneel down on the ground next to d'Artagnan.  
  
"Don't take this the wrong way," Aramis says, winking the way he does at the old ladies in the cafeteria. Then they're tucking an arm each under his knees while slipping the other under his arms before lifting him in the air. It's a lopsided ride, and he finds himself leaning towards Aramis' shoulder. The position allows him to continue his shallow attempts at breathing though, and when they start moving, they do so fast.  
  
Athos leads the way, car keys jangling in one hand and the GPS unit which they'd checked out before heading out to the remote crime scene in the other.  
  
By the time they get to the car, d'Artagnan's t-shirt's so damp with sweat that it clings to him like a second skin. There's an iron band tightening around his chest and, despite his best attempts not to give in to the urge, he's begun coughing. Each shallow breath comes as a win at the end of a long struggle and as he watches Athos tear the door open, it hits him that he might not make it out of the forest alive. That this day, this stupid accident, could be what breaks his mother's heart.  
  
"It's going to be okay," Aramis interrupts his thoughts. "Porthos is a terribly reckless driver, I'm the best medical student never to graduate anything and Athos is the most stubborn son of a bitch in the country. You'll be fine."  
  
With that promise, he gets in next to Porthos, leaving Athos to sit with d'Artagnan in the back of the car. Athos helps him get his arms out off the hot and stuffy jacket , then unwraps the scarf from around his neck.  
  
"Back straight," he orders, pushing d'Artagnan back. "Breath in through your nose, out through your mouth. I know it's difficult, but you can do it."  
  
He sounds utterly confident and his hand wraps itself around the nape of d'Artagnan's neck again, as if intending to anchor him not just to the seat but to life as well. D'Artagnan tries. And tries again. He catches a glimpse of himself in the rear view mirror but quickly looks away; with his face as colorless as paper he looks like he's already dead.  
  
Porthos takes a corner too fast and they all slide to the left. There's a thump followed by a pained yelp as Aramis slams his head against the dashboard.  
  
"Seatbelt," Athos barks, despite the fact that neither him nor d'Artagnan have fastened theirs.  
  
"In a bit," comes the answer. "Busy!"  
  
D'Artagnan inhales through his nose. Exhales through pursed lips. Coughs. Coughs again. Wheezes. Sucks in another mouthful of air. Coughs some more. Exhaustion has set in and he can feel himself beginning to sag, his entire body leaning against Athos.  
  
"Did I ever tell you," Athos says, voice conversational even as he props d'Artagnan back up again, "about my little brother Thomas?"  
  
There's no need for d'Artagnan to try and answer. The answer's no, and they both know it. Athos has never spoken to him about any member of his family, or anything else from his past for that matter. If it wasn't for Aramis and Porthos' gossiping like teenage girls, d'Artagnan wouldn't have had any problems believing that Athos had sprung, fully formed, out of Treville's head like one of those Greek gods.  
  
"He suffered from asthma too," Athos continues. "Had a nebulizer, albuterol pump, well, you name it. Our parents spoiled him rotten to make up for all the things he couldn't do. I used to hate him."  
  
There's no hate in his voice though, just fondness. D'Artagnan wants to ask him what had happened to the brother, but he's too tired. His head hurts. His lungs ache. He slumps towards Athos again.  
  
"No," Athos commands, his fingers digging into d'Artagnan's neck with bruising force. "Stay awake."  
  
D'Artagnan wheezes out a wordless, breathless apology. Then he closes his eyes.  
  
"Here," Aramis shouts from the front of the car. "Found it!"  
  
Moments later something hard presses against d'Artagnan's lips. He blinks his eyes open and finds his inhaler being held up to his mouth by Athos. He wraps his lips around the mouthpiece and inhales. The medication tastes bitter in his mouth. There's a click as Athos prepares another dose and d'Artagnan obediently takes another puff as the plastic prods his lips again.  
  
"Better?" Aramis demands after a few minutes, upper body hanging over the edge of his seat. Athos looks like he's about to say something about seat belts again when Porthos simply reaches back, grabs Aramis by the back of his coat and pulls him back into his seat.  
  
"You found the damned thing, " the man growls, speaking without shifting his eyes from the road. "Now strap yourself in before you go flying out through the windshield next time I break. Athos will take care of the kid."  
  
"Not a... kid," d'Artagnan wheezes, tension bleeding out of his body as the pressure on his chest lessens by the second. Porthos glances away from the empty street for a second, grinning at him in the window.  
  
"Better then," he says. "Good. We'll be in town in a few minutes."  
  
"Don't... need any hospital." D'Artagnan pauses, sucking in some more air before continuing. "I'm fine... now."  
  
Porthos scoffs. Aramis cackles. Next to d'Artagnan, Athos shakes his head.  
  
"You're fine when the doctors say you're fine," he says, voice cool and dry again. He keeps his hand on d'Artagnan's neck for the rest of the ride though.  
  
  
  
 **Bonus epilogue:**  
  
So, this is what happens next;  
  
Captain Treville yells at him, a lot. His mother yells at him even more. Porthos slaps the back of his head. Really hard. Aramis starts carrying a spare inhaler. He also super-glues all the pockets on d'Artagnan's jacket shut. Athos stops smoking.  
  
No one asks d'Artagnan to leave the team.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I don't know how realistic it really is to have someone with asthma working as a police officer. But, well, there you go.
> 
> 2) While there are studies to suggest that both coffee and breathing techniques *might* help in an emergency, please do no take what you've read in this story as proper medical advice. In a real life emergency, please go through the proper medical channels available to you in your country. 
> 
> 3) Also, to quote Athos; "Seatbelt!" Always. Really.


End file.
